December 10, 2004 | Friends

*phone rings*
Me: Hey.
Her: Hey. How’s your day?
Me: Fine. Chickadee’s class sang at school. There were bongo drums. My head still hurts.
Her: But was it cute?
Me: Totally.
Her: Cool.
Me: I can’t get warm today.
Her: Me either. It’s gross out.
Me: Why does it seem colder when it rains in December than when it snows??
Her: That’s true. I dunno. Cuz it’s damp? Or something?
Me: We should be scientists.
Her: Yes. Except no.
Me: Fine.
Her: I was on the phone until 11:30 last night.
Me: Wow. Hey! Guess what I was doing last night!
Her: What!
Me: Not talking on the phone! No! Because my phone? Never rang!
Her: Oh. I’m sorry.
Me: Yeah, well. Maybe tonight.
Her: Maybe. I don’t know.
Me: Maybe.
Her: Men are too complicated.
Me: Yup. Also they suck. Not in the good way, most of ‘em.
Her: Okay. Um. Hey! It’s cold out.
Me: Yeah, I’m freezing.
Her: So I’ll call you later.
Me: Okay.

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December 9, 2004 | Offspring: ecstasy and agony

If I were a better mother (where’s that button, Jenny??), when my children arrived home after school, I would immediately go through their backpacks and lunchbags and deal with the contents therein. The lunchbags would be emptied and the ice packs set back into the freezer, the various art projects admired, the pine needles and acorns surreptitiously disposed of, permission slips signed, the next day’s items packed, etc.

And I fully intend to do this, every day, but I always end up sidetracked by other more important matters. Such as hollering, “Excuse me, were you raised in a barn? Close that door!” or commenting loudly to no one in particular that I’m sure whomever left this coat in a heap on the floor meant to hang it up, or suggesting that urinating is, in fact, a solo activity in need of neither an audience nor serenading.

Prioritizing can be a mother’s biggest challenge, as we all know.

Due to this lack of June Cleaver-ish handling of my children’s school belongings, the morning usually finds me empting out backpacks and doing my tried-and-true stint as a nagging, broken record.
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December 8, 2004 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

The thing about me and dating, is that my experience is rather limited. The experience I have? Is quite pitiful. Most of the men I’ve dated, I knew as friends for quite a while before things changed. Hence there was none of that nervously-charged getting-to-know-you sort of thing.

Men metaphorically dropping out of the sky into my lap who happen to be hunky and sweet? Since when does that happen to me?? Please pinch me. Ahem. Anyway. We’re not talking about that.

Offered for your amusement: A peek into that which shapes my expectations–correctly or not–about what it can mean to “date” a guy.
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What do I do all day?

You know, that game… that they play… with that ball… and… stuff. Right, that one! Let’s talk about that. You go first, as I seem to have lost my brain somewhere today….

Is it still lunch if it doesn’t conclude until dinnertime? A hypothetical, of course. I’m just curious.

Ran off to pick up the kids, and found half the neighborhood waiting at the house where Chickadee was having her playdate. Coincidence? They didn’t even try to play it off as such. The women all screamed “WE WANT THE SCOOP!” the second I walked through the door.

That wasn’t embarrassing. Much.

Had I been able to do much more than smile and giggle I’m sure I would’ve been offended.

But now I need to make dinner and tend to the kids and, um, marvel that today wasn’t a total catastrophe.

December 7, 2004 | Friends

… how small is it, Mir?

Well, lemme tell ya.
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Offspring: ecstasy and agony

I had an entire conversation with a friend, yesterday, about the state of our childrens’ hair. Yes, if you are a mom, you’re nodding your head in understanding, and if not, you’re realizing that this is what our lives are about and… hey! Where are you going??

Her stance was that–although her son recently cut his own hair for reasons not entirely clear, and now looks sort of like a doofus–giving a child a buzz cut in New England in winter is cruel and unusual. His head will be cold! I pointed out that regardless of the length of the hair, a hat is in order from October until April, so what matter the hair length?

Of course, this is easy for me to say. My boychild sported a buzz cut exclusively for the first three years of his life. Up until then, trying to get him to hold still for an actual haircut was an exercise in madness. The thirty seconds I needed to run the clippers over his head was doable. As he grew older, things changed. For one thing, he became bribable. The promise of candy as a reward for holding still for 600 seconds instead of just 30 was a powerful motivator. Also I was tiring of people noting his striking resemblance to Curious George (we don’t call him Monkey for nothing, ya know). So we grew out the buzz to the standard “little boy haircut” and every six to eight weeks I chase him down and duct tape him to a stool in the kitchen and he whines that his nose itches and the water is dripping in his eyes and his neck is scratchy and I’m cutting off his ears.

Yesterday morning, Monkey arose from bed with such an alarming profusion of bedhead that I almost hurt myself laughing. “What?” he humphed at me.

“You look like a hedgehog, buddy. Go look in the mirror.” He trotted into the bathroom and admired his wild ‘fro.

“Wow!” he said. “I sure do look like a hedgehog. Mama, what’s a hedgehog?” I explained, and then added that our first order of business after school was going to be giving him a haircut.
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December 6, 2004 | Haven't been hit by lightning yet!

In an uncertain world, in uncertain times, sometimes even the lowliest mortals are treated to a glimpse of divinity.

Tonight I saw the face of God. And it was good.

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

I’d like to introduce you to my son’s latest obsession. Perhaps some of you XY types can come on in here and lend me some of that insight that can only come from testosterone poisoning, because frankly, I am stumped. This is Martian Manhunter, a.k.a. John Jones, a.k.a. J’onn J’onzz (which I’m thinking is his rap star name). He’s evidently a very cool dude, and I–in my unhip femaleness and even worse, MOMness–am unable to grasp his inherent fabulousness. I see a big green ugly dude in a blue diaper (and let’s be honest here: the package? nonexistent. Perhaps he did too many steroids, poor guy) and ill-fitting boots. Also he appears to be wearing a toddler leash. But who am I to judge?

Here is what I know: Martian Manhunter has been present in every incarnation of the Justice League, even when Aquaman spearheaded a reorg. (It does not surprise me to learn that Aquaman felt the need to flex his muscles. The guy has gills; WOW, how SUPER!) He has a variety of superpowers that are just like Superman’s only different. Ummmmmm, yeah. And although he is of alien origin, he will lay down his life for humankind! Which is SUPER! Not DUMB, Mama! Heck, I’m a native here and I certainly wouldn’t risk death to save this pitiful species, but I guess they do things differently on Mars.
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December 5, 2004 | It's not a regret, it's an "experience"

I had something I was going to blog about tonight, but I forget what it was. And my mother always told me that if it was important, I’d remember. I can’t remember so it was probably dumb. Oh, wait, I just remembered! Justice League party supplies! I bought some! And I have some questions about this Martian Manhunter guy, but maybe Monkey can answer them for me tomorrow at breakfast.

Might’ve been better if I hadn’t remembered. That was dumb.

This guy (not Martian Manhunter; the guy I mentioned in a few previous posts) is becoming harder to write off as a fluke, although I suppose he could still be psychotic and I just haven’t figured it out yet. But there has now been a second phone call, and a real-live date scheduled, and he’s still speaking to me and hasn’t yet appeared disturbing in any way. Perhaps I’m being set up for Candid Camera.

Anyway, it occurs to me that it may be time for me to shut up about him. Also time for me to consider the possibility of this turning into Something, or at least Something Other Than Blog Fodder. Although the stress from vascillating between pure denial and sheer terror at What Might Happen could spawn several (hundred) thousand words of neurotic angst, I’m sure.

But, well, there are other places my energy needs to go, right now. I need to lose 5 pounds before Wednesday, also find a way to reverse the effects of gravity. A few days isn’t enough time to develop Buns of Steel, but I’d settle for Buns of Something Other Than Jello. I should bathe in benzoyl peroxide daily between now and then so that I don’t sprout any unsightly zits. And somehow I will need to squeeze the care and feeding of the children and job hunting and all of that sort of stuff in somewhere inbetween the many hours I plan to spend standing inside my closet, wondering how I can own so many pieces of clothing and still have absolutely nothing to wear.

I’ll get back to you with the scoop on Martian Manhunter. The other puzzling man in my life will have to remain a mystery for a while longer. If I have to cope with the uncertainty of not knowing what the heck is going on here, why should you get every detail? Sheesh.